


your earliest 20s are the shittiest years of your life

by ixidem



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Drug Use, Existential Crisis, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Break Up, References to Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a whole lot of existential crises and angst and a little bit of hope (?), i'm so sorry akaashi, narrator: she did in fact need a beta reader, no beta we die like men, tiny blood mention in chp 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixidem/pseuds/ixidem
Summary: Again and again and again, the cycle of offering his own flesh repeats itself — pound by pound he sacrifices to repay a debt to whom he does not know — but above all, he knows this: if he is not desirable as a fuckable commodity, then he is not worthy of anything. Love isn’t pleasure but pleasure is love and he can’t tell the difference, not anymore.becoming an adult sucks.in which akaashi learns to deal with a broken relationship, impostor syndrome, the fleeting nature of youth and beauty, growing insecurities, and (bad) coping mechanisms.for hq writer jukebox's mitski event — my song wasbrand new city, one of my all-time favorites.I think my brain is rotting in placesI think my heart is ready to dieI think my body is falling in piecesI think my blood is passing me by
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Kudos: 6
Collections: Haikyuu Writer Jukebox Round One - Mitski





	1. brain

If someone asked when Akaashi Akaashi peaked in life, he’d answer: college, without hesitation. 

His resume was littered with several literary accomplishments and prizes, leadership positions at the most elite journals, internships at prestigious magazines that made others green-eyed with envy. Everyone — he assumed, at least — expected him to go on to do great, big things. 

But here he is, hunched over his laptop, cranking out last-minute edits for a shounen manga of all things, on his birthday, alone in his apartment. 

+++++

“You’re accepting it?” Tetsurou Kuroo had asked, when Akaashi initially broke the news of the offer. “Manga? I didn’t take you for the type.” 

“I’m not staying in it forever. It’s just for the experience,” Akaashi prattled. “Just so I can make enough money to be financially stable and then do what I really want to do, and you know that’s literature.”

+++++

Akaashi had dreamed of becoming a bigshot editor of some sort, writing and editing stories that matter, that “spoke truth to power,” as they said, that had a tangible impact on realpeople or policy or law. But first, he needed to get his finances in order — and so he took the first job he could. 

“That’s okay!” his boyfriend had exclaimed, wrapping him in a tight hug. “I love you, and I’m sure you’ll kill it. Plus, you can always freelance on the side.” 

And so he’d arrived in a brand new city, fresh and wide-eyed and brimming with potential, his entire heart on his sleeve. 

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re not making an impact?” Akaashi had inquired of every senior editor he asked to coffee.

“It’s a means to an end,” they’d smile and reply. 

His one consolation was his doting boyfriend, Koutarou Bokuto, his personal ray of sunshine. After making it through the hellscape that was university, they’d pursue their dreams together — so he’d selfishly imagined. 

When Bokuto told him about being scouted to a professional volleyball team, the two had celebrated the occasion with divine filet mignons and overpriced cocktails at a fancy speakeasy after, cuddled in a booth with foreheads pressed together and intertwined hands, clinking glasses and whispering sweet nothings, enveloped with love and joy. 

But what Akaashi hadn’t expected were the long trips away — a given, really, due to the international nature of the team — the infrequent, short calls, and Bokuto’s skyrocketing popularity. “Did I not mention this/him/her?” and “Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you,” became common refrains between the two. 

“We’re not kids anymore,” Akaashi would explain to concerned friends. “There’s no need for us to be texting so constantly.” He chalked it up to their respective long hours at work; besides, they’d catch up soon enough, he thought.

But it’s different today. 

It’s his birthday, and he is spending it alone in their apartment, where a stark silence fell, an unsettling, freezing silence that strikes fear into his heart. Akaashi had been confident that Bokuto would be home to surprise him, as he’d been prone to grand gestures — ranging from extravagant gifts to ridiculous dates, or both — in their first couple years of dating. But midnight is drawing closer, and he’s too prideful to ask of Bokuto’s whereabouts. 

Giving up on perfecting the edits, he shoots the file to his manager and slams his laptop shut. Akaashi twists the silver band on his right ring finger — matching rings they’d gotten for their third anniversary — as he paces the cramped living room. 

_He’s probably busy, or stuck in traffic. Oh god, did something awful happen to him on the way?_

He’d cooked himself a simple dinner earlier — salmon, roasted vegetables, and rice, just in case Bokuto decided to come home with fancy takeout or an attempt at a home-cooked meal — but the dirty dishes lay lonely and unattended in the sink. Even just seeing him would be a gift at this point, given that they hadn’t seen each other in a few months due to his international tournaments. 

_Maybe I should clean up so he doesn’t have to when he comes._

He gnaws on his nails and decides to vacuum furiously. _Screw the neighbors._ He can hear their nightmarishly cheery holiday music jingling through the walls already, and it’s infuriating. _It’s not even that close to Christmas._ Along the way, his brain spins off justifications for Bokuto’s aching absence. 

But then, his phone lights up, granting reprieve from his torture. Akaashi pounces on it immediately. 

“pls fix tks” — an email from his boss.

Akaashi hurls his phone at the couch. 

+++++

It’s five days after his birthday, and Akaashi tells himself it would be childish to still be upset. Bokuto had texted him with a million emojis and sent a wilting bouquet to his office to prove his repentance the following morning. He’d been too busy with practice that day, he explained, and he simply fell asleep — _all par for the course for a professional athlete, anyways —_ and he promised to make it up to Akaashi. _What was a few days' difference?_

“Thank you for being so understanding, so mature,” Bokuto had affirmed. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“No, _I_ don’t deserve _you_ ,” he’d responded. 

But it’s all fine now though, because here he is at the team’s holiday party, where he’s going to be introduced to all of Bokuto’s famous teammates, to officially carve in stone the existence of their relationship in their first post-college social debut — coworkers only brought serious significant others and spouses to work events, so this must mean they’re a real, serious, adult couple, _right?_ Not that he’d ever doubted the seriousness of their relationship; their mutual friends cooed over their being soulmates who’d love each other forever and ever. But there’s something different about officiating their relationship in a more formal, professional setting than at lazy college parties or dorm hangouts. 

His phone pings, interrupting his thoughts, and he fumbles through his coat pocket to find Bokuto’s text illuminating the screen — “see you soon bb!!!!!!!! can’t wait for this to b over so i can surprise u after 🥰😘❤️✨” — and another one immediately after — “also wow i’ve had 4 cocktails but i’m not drunk at all!!!!”

Akaashi smiles, and pushes open the door to the bar. He’s pleasantly surprised by the unpretentiousness of it, the familiar dim lighting, shabby decor, and stickered walls carrying with them a familiar scent of college shenanigans. In the crowd, national team members, fitness directors, and various other officials mingle, buzzing with excitement after a successful first year with the new team. 

A flurry of streaked hair enters his vision as the love of his life, the lightest of lightweights, drunk to the heavens, barrels into him. 

“Keiiiiiiiji! I’ve missed youuuu,” Bokuto murmurs into Akaashi’s shoulder, rounded over as he wraps his arms firmly around Akaashi’s waist. 

“It’s so nice to meet you!” an orange-haired man gushes, firmly pumping one of Akaashi’s hands. “I’m Shoyo!” 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the famous boyfriend I’ve heard so much about,” drawls a man sporting a crown of bleached hair, emerging from behind Bokuto. His arm is perched on his companion’s — a dark-haired, scowling man — shoulder. “I’m Atsumu. It’s nice to meet ya. And this is Kiyoomi, the _famous_ Kiyoomi Sakusa, but we call him Omi-omi.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Akaashi chokes out as he staggered under his boyfriend’s weight.

“You’re the only one that calls me that,” Sakusa spits, as he shrugs off his arm. “I’m going off to look for Wakatoshi.” 

The blonde clutches his heart in dramatic distress — “Ugh, how cruel!” — before winking and bounding off to raise hell elsewhere.

Bokuto revives at the mention of Ushijima’s name, snapping back up to announce his intentions: “Oh, oh, I have to go say hi! Wait for me here, will you?” 

“Of course,” Akaashi says, because _what else could he say?_

He fights his way to a spot at the bar, waving his drink ticket at the bartenders who firmly ignores his existence for a solid five minutes. Resigning himself to his fate, he plops down on the wooden stool, letting out a drawn-out sigh. 

“Hah, no luck as well?” A striking man who looks exceedingly familiar grinned at him, a brilliant flush dusting across his cheeks. “I thought they were just avoiding me because I look like I’m too drunk to stand.” 

“Asian glow?” Akaashi laughs in return. “Wait — are you… related to Miya Atsumu?”

“Yeah, it’s the worst, to both of your questions.” The man’s gaze drifts down to the silver band on Akaashi’s finger. “I’m Osamu, his twin. And who are you here with?” 

“Bokuto,” Akaashi beams.

“Ah, the famous ace! So he’s the lucky one,” Osamu responds, his gaze softening.

As they trade introductions, chit chatting about their jobs and the various shenanigans of the national team, the bartender finally reappears to take their orders: for Osamu, an old fashioned and a G&T, and a southside for Akaashi.

“Whiskey fan?” Akaashi asks, trying not to crinkle his face at the harsh smell.

“Nah, it’s for my brother. He tried to convince me that it’s a good, manly drink, but I’ll bet it’s to impress his fans. I prefer gin.”

“So do I.” Akaashi raises his glass. “Cheers to that.” 

“Cheers to good taste.” Osamu chuckles, and the two clink glasses. 

The minute hand of the clock completes a full rotation, and then some, as the two chat on, order a few more rounds, and the ice long disappears in what was supposed to be Atsumu’s drink. Warmth courses through his body, a familiar sensation but somehow more pleasant than times past. 

“Whoops. Well, Akaashi, it was a pleasure to meet ya, but I’m off to deliver this watered down drink and save Sakusa from my dear brother, or vice versa.”

“Likewise, and good luck.” Akaashi can feel the alcohol in his face now, but it’s a pleasant, comforting buzz.

“Well, if you’re ever hungry, feel free to stop by my shop,” — Osamu rummages in his pocket, pulling out a business card from his wallet — “happy to have you guys anytime.”

And with that, Osamu disappears into the crowd, holding his drink high. Akaashi watches as he snakes his way to the other side of the room — when a loud noise causes him to whip his head to the door.

Bursts of laughter reassure him there is no mortal injury as Akaashi wades his way through the crowd, only to find Bokuto at the center of attention. 

“I’m baaaaack, y’all!” Bokuto belts out. “And with pizzzzzaaaaaaaaa!” He nearly crashes into a table after thrusting the noticeably empty pizza box into the air, victoriously. Said pizza was on the ground, a mess of wet cheese and pepperoni. 

_He left? Without me?_

Before he could ruminate further, Akaashi notices the bouncer walking toward them when Hinata, _an angel, a true god amongst men_ , begins motioning them towards the exit before attempting to defuse the burly bouncer. 

_Thank you_ , Akaashi mouths. He hastily grabs Bokuto’s belongings, wrapping a scarf about the burbling man’s face, and hails a cab. 

On the way home, he leans his head against the cool window; outside, the moon accompanies them, silver and silent. Bokuto snoozes away in Akaashi’s lap, bare hands curling around his boyfriend’s and all promises forgotten, but Akaashi is too tired to care. 

The question from earlier plagues him, but he swats it off with excuses — _It’s fine. He had every intention of coming back anyways, and it wasn’t likely I was actively looking for him._ The lightness he’d felt earlier in the evening is gnawed away by growing anxiety, as sobriety crashes down on him in the form of a pulsating headache. 


	2. heart

Akaashi wakes up with the worst headache he’d ever experienced, at an ungodly early hour. He’d never even experienced the semblance of a proper hangover in his college days, but today, he truly feels the pain of aging. 

Still, whatever he’s feeling is probably much less than whatever the corpse next to him is experiencing. Bokuto passed out immediately upon hitting the bed face-first last night; this morning, he’s still in the same position, but stifled groaning can be heard as Akaashi peels himself off the bed. 

“I’m dying, Akaashi,” Bokuto moans. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Sure, sure.”

Akaashi takes a sip of water — _nope, too early for that_ — and places the glass next to Bokuto before crawling back under the covers. 

He spends the next few hours napping and trying not to hurl and failing, until he finally empties his stomach of its contents and he feels like a human being again. 

Unfortunately, his boyfriend does not feel the same way. He spends the rest of the day babying Bokuto, cleaning up and getting food and doing laundry and whatever else felt necessary. 

Bokuto’s phone had been incessantly pinging with notifications the entire day, until Bokuto finally grumbles and asks Akaashi to take care of it for him. Akaashi picks up Bokuto’s phone, swiping through the notifications. 

[2:14 AM] shoyo: i’m home, btw!! 

[2:01 AM] tsum-tsum: r u good???? hope Akaashi didn’t kill u lmao u better make it up to him bro

[1:58 AM] shoyo: text me when you guys are home!! hope you’re ok and had fun :))) and thanks for the pizza!! 

[1:42 AM] ms. perfect: hope you’re having fun — i miss you! 

[1:40 AM] tsum-tsum: where tf r u?? 

[12:36 AM] omi: i’m leaving. bye

_Who the fuck is Ms. Perfect?_

He glances over at Bokuto’s passed out form, and taps into the text. 

What he reads next blurs together, a revolting combination of letters and flirting and compliments and plans to meet up and —

_No._

What Akaashi _wants_ to do is to smash the phone on the concrete pavement seven floors below. What he _wants_ to do is to grab Bokuto by the collar and scream at him until his throat is hoarse, or even slug him in the face a few times. What he _wants_ to do is scream and cry and crumple on the ground like a child, because he doesn’t know how else to process whatever emotion was burning through his veins. 

“Babe, come back to bed,” Bokuto grumbles. 

What he _does_ is set the phone down like nothing happened, and let himself be pulled into bed. Burrowing his head into the crook of Akaashi’s neck, his boyfriend sighs contentedly as he intertwines their fingers. 

+++++

The next few days smear together with the finesse of a toddler mixing paint. Hours spent loitering pass by like seconds, while minutes of self-flagellation drag on for eternity. He spends most of this time avoiding Bokuto, who doesn’t seem to notice.

Akaashi scrutinizes himself in the mirror, a ritual he’s taken up in the days since the discovery. _A waste of youth, huh._ He pinches his cheeks — _imperfect, dull_ — his belly — _unsightly, soft_ — and runs his hands through his hair — _plain, unfashionable_ — before he’s struck with the urge to rip his hair out, to slap himself, to do something to punish himself for his undesirability. Instead, he wrings his hands. 

He tries to tick off his hobbies, his _interesting_ points, and realizes his focus has almost entirely been on Bokuto. He spent his prime leeching off Bokuto’s sheer energy and extraversion, adopting whatever hobbies were interesting to his boyfriend and molding his looks to fit his preferences. Fundamentally, his happiness came from riding the high of fulfilling someone else’s desires, no matter how insignificant they turned out to be. 

_Is it because I’m not smart enough? Not successful, not ambitious enough?_ Of course, whoever this Ms. Perfect may be — they must be perfect in their career as well, while he flounders, lost and delusional, an impostor through and through. Bokuto had hyped him up to the point where he believed he would change the world, somehow, yet here he was stuck in dull bureaucracies and driving views or whatever other bullshit metrics the company wanted to track. He feels like a hollow carcass, consumed whole by his soulless, shallow desire for professional glory. 

As violent as his mood oscillations are, Akaashi finds himself unable to cry. He stares at himself until his form distorts, and now he is hunched over the sink, chest heaving and mouth gasping, but he is unable to summon the emotional release he desperately craves. 

It is in this state that Bokuto finally finds him. “Akaashi, are you okay?”

“Yes,” he responds through gritted teeth, trying to stem the tears that are welling up. 

“C’mon. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing,” Akaashi blurts out. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Bokuto’s brows pinch together in worry, and the man wraps his arms around the other’s waist from behind. 

“Let me know if you wanna talk, okay?” Bokuto places a gentle kiss on his temple. “I love you.” 

“...I love you too.” 

+++++

It’s three in the morning and Akaashi is staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile his turbulent emotions with his practical nature. He’s trying not to analyze the potential outcomes of his situations, not to think about the lying and emotional cheating, not to parse out the specificities of how to split their shared belongings, not to envision a life led alone, forever by himself and his thoughts are colliding with each other, crumbling like eggshells and creating an incomprehensible and discordant concoction. 

“Baby, are you okay?” There’s a sudden jolt at his side as Bokuto yawns loudly, stretching his arm across Akaashi’s torso. 

At that moment, his emotions decide to flee his body. He’s left clutching at his sheets as he chokes out, “I know.” 

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“I know about her.”

Bokuto immediately freezes, his voice quiet and normally overwhelming presence muted. His boyfriend’s hand is suspended in mid-air, interrupted on its journey to caress, to initiate… something. 

“Keiji.”

“I know.” Akaashi spits out the same phrase like it’s a rotten piece of meat. His entire body is shaking and he’s digging his nails into his palm. 

The figure beside him is silent. Bokuto withdraws his arm — _is he quavering? is he repenting?_ — and tucks it into the cave of his body. 

“Can I ask you just one thing?” Akaashi finally whispers.

Bokuto remains silent, a cloud of guilt hanging over the both of them, their destined, perfect future crumbling around them as time ticks by. 

Akaashi forges on, any semblance of propriety or self respect evaporated at this point. “Was I ever good enough?”

His boyfr— ex, rather — hesitates. “Yes. Yes. You always will be.” 


	3. body/blood

Four drinks in and Akaashi is telling himself he feels fine. 

It’s been more than a month since the break— the confrontation. Akaashi is in the bathroom of a shitty bar, clenching the porcelain sink once again and repressing the urge to puke the contents of his stomach out. The poor lighting emphasizes his smeared concealer and gaunt face underneath, highlighting the inadequacies of his wobbling form encased in a gauzy blouse and tight leather pants. 

Someone offers him something that isn’t alcohol, something that promises to make him feel love and joy incarnate. It’s a bad idea. He accepts it anyways. 

It's mere routine, at this point. These bars are home to consistently wasted college kids and prowling 20-somethings who dangle their six-figure salary as bait for shoddy hookups. Yet he persists, preening for the voyeurs, exchanging their desire for shreds of self-validation.

Again and again and again, the cycle of offering his own flesh repeats itself — pound by pound he sacrifices to repay a debt to whom he does not know — but above all, he knows this: if he is not desirable as a fuckable commodity, then he is not worthy of anything. Love isn’t pleasure but pleasure is love and he can’t tell the difference, not anymore. 

There’s a couple making out at the bar and he’s branding the view into his eyeballs as he slams down another cheap whiskey drink that he doesn’t know the name of. It doesn’t matter. His jaw is quivering, fire burning oh-so-familiarly on his tongue, and when he shuts his eyes, he can feel himself trembling with anticipation for the inevitable high. 

Before long, he’s loose and warm and shaking and waiting for someone to scoop him up, the _Prince Charming_ he would be, crush his lips with his own, fuck him until he comes to his senses the following morning, freed of any guilt and emotional attachment, and leaves. 

“Hey.”

Akaashi turns and bats his mascara-slicked eyelashes, ready for another one-night endeavor. “Hey.” 

A familiar view comes into focus — grey dyed hair, striking shoulders, and a stunning smile. “Akaashi?”

“Hold on. Osamu?” Akaashi exclaims, a sudden thrill coursing through him. He drums his fingers on the damp coaster, conscious of the thudding in his ribcage. 

“That’s me.” The Miya twin smiles. “I thought you weren’t a whiskey fan?”

Akaashi looks down at his mostly empty drink and gives a sheepish smile. “Yeah, tastes change, I guess.” 

Osamu bursts out laughing. “That was quick.”

Amid dim lights and casual shouting, Akaashi is informed that Onigiri Miya is just down the street, and Osamu swings by because he’s friends with the poor bartenders who have to deal with this folly on a regular basis. _So he’s different from everyone else._ One drink turns into another, and as the liquid courage hits, Akaashi divulges the news of his breakup to Osamu. 

“Are you okay?” Osamu asks, concern rippling across his face. 

Akaashi nods too quickly and takes a large sip of his cocktail. “It’s over. What can I say?” He opens his mouth, but shuts it immediately. 

Akaashi ventures another glance at the sturdy man, who now has an indecipherable look on his face. Feeling emboldened by the ecstasy that’s radiating through his entire body, he reaches out and grabs Osamu’s arm, which is surprisingly warm. 

“Wanna… take a walk?” 

Osamu leans in closer, so close his breath caresses his face, and Akaashi can see the brilliant flush flooding his cheeks more clearly now. 

“Sure.” 

As Akaashi tries to stand up, he collides into Osamu, landing both hands on the other man’s chest to steady himself. 

“Woah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not drunk at all, just have bad balance and the floor is really sticky.” Akaashi beams and spouts off unconvincing excuses. 

Osamu slings an arm around Akaashi, wrapping his coat around his bony shoulders. Akaashi keeps one arm curled around Osamu’s bicep, leaning into the other man as he tries to walk at a normal pace. The shop owner’s arm is still wrapped around his waist long after the coat has found its place. 

As they trod down the pavement, Akaashi stares at the flat brick of the tenements, and finds himself babbling about the relationship. The venting comes in sporadic bursts of emotion, but any regard for his carefully curated image is long cast aside. Before they know it, they’ve made it all the way across town, and Akaashi runs out of steam. A thick silence settles between them. 

They pause in the middle of the street. All but the man next to him appears blurry at this point. Akaashi looks up at Osamu, scouring his handsome profile, his eyebrows, his striking eyelashes, and now Akaashi is vibrating with energy from the joy of catharsis, the air around him charged with innocent anticipation and tension. 

As their gazes meet, Akaashi is suddenly struck with exhilaration. Making the first move feels like he is flaying his own chest open, but he’s never felt so sure of anything in his life. He stretches his hand toward Osamu’s face, closing the unbearable gap between them — when Osamu gently grabs him by the shoulders. 

“Hey. I’m sorry that things ended badly between you and him, but I think you should get some rest and go home. Or maybe get some help.”

Akaashi freezes and nods. He can be dense, but not _that_ dense. 

He pushes himself off of Osamu, and nearly topples into the ground, furious at himself. The shop owner looks concerned and reaches out a hand that Akaashi ignores as he strides off. 

Coming to an abrupt halt at the nearest subway station, he quips a curt farewell — “Have a good night, Osamu.” — and stomps down the steps to the station before Osamu can respond. The high is long gone, and what clarity he had dissolves into shame. Akaashi counts to 100 by himself, then clambers out of the stairway once the surface is clear of any trace of the man who had just humiliated him. 

The ashes of his heart had been stirred by the night’s events, but his hope had dissipated like the fragments of a dream. 

He stands by the entryway and hesitates, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

It’s one of those freezing nights, when the air splinters into fragments and he feels like he can crack open the oxygen particles by hand, when even the appallingly bright stars look plastic and dead. 

Akaashi is stumbling through the wet pavement, when he falls over a metal barrier and careens into a stark tree. He can feel the rush in his head as he lurches over, the wetness permeating his palms and knees, but he doesn’t care. 

There’s a primal sort of heaviness in his skull that reminds him of his pain, his inadequacy, his hatred for Bokuto, his immense self-pity, and resulting disgust at his own self-centeredness. Akaashi sinks down, partially swallowed by accumulated slush, digging his clammy hands into the soil. He wills himself to shed tears in a typical “existential crisis in a big city” movie moment, but, once again, that release escapes him. 

A group of college kids walk by, hollering about god-knows-what. They ignore him completely.

It’s nights like these that Akaashi realizes that he is alive, so alive — and his complete, utter insignificance. 

He curls up on a stray porch, coldness sinking in and hands slipping as he tries to tap gibberish on his phone, and after 2 missed cabs, he miraculously finds a way to get home. 

Once Akaashi crashes through the door of his studio, he makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he stumbles over the counter. While tearing off the foil of the wine bottle, he slices his thumb open. He stares at his own thumb for a while, then dabs round spots of blood on a stray napkin. _How did I let myself get to this?_

Swigging directly from the bottle, he then staggers into his bathroom and succumbs to gravity. Akaashi hits something sharp on the way down, but he doesn’t feel the pain. His skull feels too heavy for his neck, his shoulders as it rolls back; his eyes dart between the rounded light and his nauseating face and the fire alarm outside and his stained lips and his bloody thumb and his scraped knees and the light again and in the sliver of mirror he can see — the tears that are now sliding down his contorted face unceremoniously. 


	4. how to die & epilogue

Akaashi’s eyes creak open. He’s slammed with pulsating nausea but from the depths of his memory he’s able to fish out a dim scene: someone rousing him and frantically asking him what he took, how much he had. 

He takes in his surroundings. He’s tucked into bed, and a plastic bottle of water is perched on his nightstand. The afternoon sunlight suffuses his apartment, rounding edges and washing away the remains of the night. 

He can vaguely make out the shape of someone curled up on the couch, too big to fit properly. 

“Kou…?” 

The figure on the couch jolts awake, turning to reveal a crop of unruly, black hair. “Uh, sorry, nope.”

“Kuroo...? Why are you here?” Akaashi manages to pull himself upright. 

“Um, you kind of sent some concerning things last night.” Kuroo scratches the back of his head. “So I figured I’d come check on you…after you left in such a hurry last night.”

A quick peek at his phone revealed that he did, indeed, send concerning things last night — as concerning as gibberish could be, anyways. 

“Ugh. Thank you for checking in on me, Kuroo.” 

“That’s what friends are for.” Kuroo grins. “Also, when I arrived, the key was still stuck in the door. The keyring had been wrenched off and was on the ground. So be grateful that I saved you from being robbed.” 

Akaashi groans and buries his face in his hands, while a gentle guffaw erupts from Kuroo. As silence sucks away the air in the room, Akaashi feels compelled to explain, to apologize.

“Listen— about last night—” Akaashi starts, but is interrupted by Kuroo. 

“Hey. You don’t have to explain anything. I know it’s been rough for you, but just know that I’m here to listen if you ever need anything.” 

Akaashi lifts his head up to look at the man across from him. “...Thank you.” 

“But first, sleep.” Kuroo sternly chides him. 

“Ah… you’re right,” Akaashi slumps back down onto the bed, feeling the fatigue hit him. 

After a long pause, he feels something stir in him, “...Kuroo?” 

“Hm?”

“I don’t think I’m okay.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to put up a front around me.” 

+++++

**epilogue**

The bell jingles loudly as Akaashi pushes open the door. 

It’s been five years since the mess that was his split from Bokuto, and Akaashi is wandering through another city, one he’d recently moved to, when he passes by a familiar sign.

“Welcome to Onigir—” The shop owner abruptly stops in the middle of his sentence when the customer enters his line of sight. “Keiji? Is that you?”

“The one and only,” Akaashi quips. 

Osamu emerges from behind the counter, his hair now a sharp black. Flipping the store sign to closed, he gestures and leads them into a booth where they could catch up in private. Fall has descended rapidly this year, bringing with it the early arrival of evening and yellowing trees.

In the years since their meeting, Onigiri Miya had seen explosive success and opened its second shop. They catch up about their current ambitions — opening a third shop for Onigiri Miya, and going to graduate school for Akaashi — before they sink into ruminations of the past. 

“I took your advice, actually,” Akaashi mentions casually.

“What advice?” Osamu asks, perplexed.

“To get help. It’s been useful. Therapy is underrated.”

“Okay, wait—” Osamu begins, while Akaashi responds, “It’s fine! You were right.” 

“No. Let me do this right,” the shop owner asserts. He takes a deep breath, visibly composing the words in his head. “I’m sorry about back then. I didn’t mean to send you such mixed signals. I just wasn’t sure what to do when you were in such a vulnerable state, and I could tell you were... grieving something.” 

“I should’ve said something more thoughtful, and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” Osamu pauses, then continues, as he gets up and begins pacing nervously. “I know this apology alone isn’t enough, and I don’t know if I can even make it up to you, but I’d love to get another chance to know you more, if you’re okay with that.” 

Akaashi stares at him, mouth agape. “No — why are you apologizing? _I’m_ sorry. What?”

For a minute, the two trade apologies, falling over themselves to assert _their_ specific remorse, their guilt, before something cracks. There’s a pause — and the corners of Osamu’s lips curl up in a smile, a smile so radiant it infects Akaashi, and before long, the two are doubled over about the strangeness, and serendipity, of the situation entirely _._

Wiping his tears away, Akaashi finally regains his composure. “In response to your earlier question, I’d appreciate it.”

“Before that, though,” Osamu jumps up. “Let me fix you something to eat.” 

“I’d love that.”

**Author's Note:**

> lmao mayhaps i have tried to do too much. 
> 
> yell at me about how bad this is & i may revise [@ixidem](https://twitter.com/ixidem)


End file.
